


In a Few Hours

by Desertpoet



Series: HLV Missing Scene Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, GFY, Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desertpoet/pseuds/Desertpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing Scene from HLV. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>"John walked slowly up the stairs into the silent flat; everything was just as they’d left it when Sherlock had been rushed back to the hospital."<i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Few Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the talented [aconissa](http://aconissa.tumblr.com/) and [toooldforthissh--stuff](http://toooldforthissh--stuff.tumblr.com/) for their beta and encouragement. aconissa also britpicked this for me. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> This missing scene takes place after the paramedics take Sherlock back to the hospital and is my take on how John is feeling after all the shocks and revelations. John is understandably angry in this scene. I think I treat Mary fairly. 
> 
> This is third in the series but takes place before the other ficlets.

John walked slowly up the stairs into the silent flat; everything was just as they’d left it when Sherlock had been rushed back to the hospital. For the second time in a week Sherlock had almost died. The doctor had spent the last several hours waiting at the hospital for news of his friend. Thank God Sherlock was going to be all right, although he had a long recovery ahead of him. The idiot had put his own life in danger to protect John – and Mary too, if the detective was to be believed. He stopped in the doorway and looked toward his chair, back in its rightful place across from Sherlock’s.

He clenched his fist, fingers curling reflexively. Just hours earlier, when he’d realised that Sherlock had put his chair back, he’d felt surprise, followed by a strong feeling of contentment rising in his chest. It was only once he’d sat in his chair that he was able to admit to himself how much he’d hated seeing the space where it once sat, empty. At that moment, John acknowledged how hurt he had been not to hear from Sherlock after the wedding. Truth was he missed Sherlock, and the place in his heart that had been filled by his return had begun to feel a little empty again. Despite his worry, everything had seemed right once again. Everything had fallen back into its proper place. They would find Sherlock, and everything would be fine.

Had it really only been a few hours? It seemed a lifetime ago. John tried to think properly but his emotions were in such horrible disarray it proved impossible. His chest felt like it had been cut open. All the wounds he had worked so hard to heal ripped open again. His wife, the person whom he was supposed to be able to trust most in this world had lied to him for months. Had, in fact, been lying to him from the moment they met. When Sherlock first told him that Mary had shot him John refused to believe it. He insisted on coming along to confront her. All the while he hoped desperately that somehow Sherlock had misremembered or misunderstood Mary’s actions. (He ignored the voice whispering that Sherlock was rarely wrong). The moment that he’d seen his wife pull out her gun John’s blood turned to ice in his veins. He’d watched as she’d shot that coin with amazing skill. He’d always found competence sexy and under different circumstances he would have found this discovery very alluring. Instead he felt sick.

For the first time he truly believed his wife had shot his best friend. One of the two most important people in his life had almost killed the other. The hope to which John clung shriveled and died and John felt his heart shatter for the second time in his life. Once back at 221B his pain had quickly turned to rage. His wife was a liar. Their whole life together was a lie. She freely admitted she would have kept lying to him. Sherlock added confusion to his anger and heartache by insisting that Mary had saved his life. Sherlock had decided to take on Mary’s case without consulting him.

Mary and Sherlock had ganged up on him and John had felt himself being backed into a corner. He had been expected to fall in line. Act as if his whole world hadn’t come to an end. Didn’t he have a right to feel betrayed, to be angry? God they were so infuriatingly similar. How had he never noticed before? Their insistence that he had chosen Mary because she was a dangerous assassin was utter bollocks, it had to be! John couldn’t deny that he had once thrived on danger. It had been a big part of who he was but that didn’t mean he had subconsciously suspected his wife was a former bloody assassin. Perhaps married life had been a bit more boring than he expected and he’d missed Sherlock but he had been content. For the most part Mary had brought him back to life after Sherlock’s death – because of her John had learned to live again. She was supposed to be his safe, normal, happy ending. They were supposed to have a family and grow old together. Didn’t he deserve that?

As she had sat in the client chair she had looked so different, so cold, not like his Mary at all. As he had listened to her explain her past in vague terms and try to justify her actions, he had felt nothing but the ice still in his veins had spread out over his entire body. After she'd finished talking Sherlock had promised to help her out from under Magnussen's thumb. John had stared at them in shock, his emotions had churned in his chest.

Suddenly Sherlock had began babbling about ambulances and response times and before John could react paramedics had burst into the room. John had finally realized how pale his friend looked. John had felt his breath catch in his throat as he reached out to help the wounded man to the floor. Sherlock had clutched at him but the detective’s usual strength had disappeared. He had urged John to trust Mary. He trusted Sherlock’s deductions and a part of him was desperate to believe Sherlock was right. He was almost always right.

As the paramedics had began to work John had felt fear crashing over him in a wave. He'd looked up to find Mary staring at him. Her expression had still been a painfully blank mask. He was so used to her laughing and smiling at him lovingly. This new side of her was had been startling, and heart breaking, John had admitted to himself, a sudden, intense burst of grief mixed with the anger he was still feeling. John took a deep breath. He had more important concerns at the moment than his wife’s betrayal. A short hysterical chuckle had escaped him at the thought, God could this night get any crazier, John had thought. He'd forced himself to turn away from Mary. Sherlock needed him, now.

The paramedics had taken Sherlock out the door. John quickly followed. “Wait! I’m his doctor and I’m going with him,” John had called, and with one last look at Mary he had followed his best friend out the door. The ride to the hospital had been just as harrowing as the last time. At least this time Sherlock’s heart had kept beating; John couldn’t lose him again. He’d already lost too much tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please think about leaving a comment. Positive feedback as well as constructive criticism welcome.  
> Follow me on tumblr: http://desert-poet.tumblr.com/


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